


memory lane

by marzipan (orphan_account)



Series: memory lane [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Secretly Married, Temporary Amnesia, this is basically just domestic fluff tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-12 04:57:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20558609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/marzipan
Summary: Mycroft bumps his head and now Jim has the lovely task of reminding him who his husband is, what he actually does for a living, and what a 'Sherlock' is.





	memory lane

Mycroft Holmes wakes up in a hospital bed. There is a dark-haired woman in a skirt suit beside him, looking just slightly worried. _ Agent, _ his brain supplies. A doctor stands around looking important, and some nurses - three, he counts - fuss about, flitting in and out of the room. He just wants to sleep.

.

He wakes up after who knows how long - _ barely an hour, judging by the light, _ his mind supplies - and politely listens to the medical prattle. And then several dossiers are spread out before him on his blanket.

Criminals, he can see. This information is classified. He wonders if now is the best time to disclose the fact that he can’t remember anything about himself, save his name.

.

The dark-haired woman gives the doctor a look. Ah. so they'd figured that out as well.

“You were caught in, I suppose you could call it, crossfire,” the woman says. “There was an attack on the embassy’s motorcade; minor injuries only. You hit your head.”

Mycroft frowns. The doctor tries to look reassuring.

“I thought a visual aid might stir some recall - do any of these men seem familiar?” the woman asks. As his brain is scrambled for facts, she’s opted to watch his response to stimuli for reaction. But - nothing. Five rows of four, twenty criminals in total placed in his lap. 

“Honestly, no,” Mycroft says. He has a mild headache, and would like to go home. 

Where is home?

.

Mycroft understands he is effectively under house arrest, because there is plenty of classified information thunking around in his brain if only one knew how to get it out.

“Home is a good idea,” Anthea, the woman, says. “You have the strangest security system I’ve ever seen, I can’t think of a safer place, really. We’ll post someone down the block.”

She tells him to call if he needs anything, and helps him find his keys. 

Unlocking the door is an easy task, but even at first glance the house is strange. The floorplan is custom, allowing for tremendous privacy, and he wonders if he is a recluse.

Then he screams.

.

Arms wrap around Mycroft’s middle and he jumps a bit, dropping his keys and coat in surprise. 

“You weren’t awake when I made it into the hospital, I was so worried,” the muffled voice - Irish? - says.

Mycroft pushes the man away at arms length to get a good look at him, shock overriding common sense. This is probably a good time to wave down the security detail in the SUV across the street. 

The man frowns, then quick as anything lands a kiss - a big, emphatic press of the lips, hands firmly on either side of his face. Until Mycroft slaps him.

The man holds his cheek, darting back out of arms reach, and sighs.

“Alright, not a fairy tale. Worth a shot,” he said. “Poor thing, you’re all confused.”

_ “Just who _ do you think you _ are?” _Mycroft practically gasps. The man - dark hair, glittering eyes, in a deceptively slim-cut suit, raises an eyebrow, and beckons Mycroft to follow. 

They go through what appears to be the living room, and he opens a safe tucked behind a panel no one would ever think to look. He unlocks it with ease - clearly he is more familiar with Mycroft’s home than Mycroft is. Then he hands Mycroft a box.

Mycroft flips it open; he finds papers, a small velvet bag. _Marriage certificates._ _Rings. _Mycroft L. Holmes has been married to Jim Moriarty for - he practically chokes when he sees the date. 

He steals glances at the man - his husband, presumably - as he reads. And Jim Moriarty did feel familiar. 

His head snaps up.

"You're a wanted criminal!" Mycroft blurts out.

"Jim" makes a face.

"I take it this isn't your memory coming back," he says, leaning against the wall beside the safe.

"They - showed me the mugshots!" Mycroft sputters, aghast. It is too much for his nearly concussed mind. Was this a trick of some sort?

Jim eyes Mycroft curiously - no, with concern.

"Did they tell you what you do?"

Mycroft looks frustrated. "I assume intelligence, given the protocols."

"More like…” Jim searches for the words. “A security and policy consultant.”

Mycroft waits expectantly. Nothing more is forthcoming.

“And that makes you...undercover?” Mycroft hedges, not wanting to believe the worst. 

“Not quite,” Jim says. “Criminal informant.”

“I need to be able to confirm that story!” Mycroft says. If this wasn’t a red flag he didn’t know what was.

Jim rolls his eyes. 

“It only works if I can’t be tracked to you,” he explains patiently.

“Yet, you’re telling me I’ve been shacking up with my CI! For years!”

Jim’s smile is incredibly smug.

“Yep.”

Mycroft’s expression is pure disbelief, and were Jim a dumber man he might’ve fallen for it, and worried about his husband’s reaction. Instead, he taps a finger against his lip. Fine. Challenge accepted.

“This is fine,” Jim tells him. “I’ll get to court you this time. I’ll have you falling for me in no time.”

Mycroft scoffs.

“Again?”

“Nope! Last time was all you. You seduced me,” Jim says with a coy look. “And I’m looking forward to getting my turn.”

Mycroft’s poor brain nearly shuts down.

.

Meanwhile, Sherlock sneaks into Baskerville as Mycroft Holmes with none the wiser.

“He’ll find out soon enough,” Sherlock says to John as he hurries along. “But this should buy us some time.”

.

Mycroft squirms, his sleep-hazy mind not yet fully awake. At the realization that there is a warm - nude?? - body pressed up behind him, he makes a sound which he will deny to his grave.

“Muscle memory is a wonderful thing, isn’t it,” Jim practically purrs behind him. Mycroft can feel the verbal vibrations, and shivers. 

Mycroft is flabbergasted. No, he would prefer to be flabbergasted, and not aroused. Is this his life now? Living with a crime lord husband he can’t even remember?

He scurries off to take a shower.

.

Mycroft realizes it is probably foreboding that even the state of his _ wardrobe _ surprises him.

“I’m quite the clothes horse,” he comments. 

“Yep,” Jim says, giving him the tour - a _ tour _ of a _ closet! _ This house was ridiculous. 

.

Jim sits him down at the dining table and says he’ll make him breakfast. 

There is an attractive man in his kitchen cooking him breakfast. Mycroft wonders if this is a regular occurrence.

As he cooks away, Mycroft rifles through his kitchen drawers and finds a phone - one of many around the house, apparently. It reads his fingerprint and unlocks - battery’s almost dead.

Tapping around, he finds a text from Jim. Something about a flight. He frowns at the ominous wording. He has a vague impression of a very uncomfortable talk. There is a woman and a young man with dark curls.

“What’s this?” he asks, showing the text to Jim. “Bond...something. I can’t remember.”

Jim laughs.

“One of your little operations. Bond Air - I’ve told you your names are too obvious. You should listen.”

Mycroft looks to Jim and the phone and Jim again. The text is a threat.

“You set me up,” he says with gasping realization, still reeling. What next, would he die for discovering this criminal’s misdeeds? Is this what he gets for being suckered by good looks and the promise of eggs and hollandaise??

Jim blinks.

“I helped _ you _ set a _ trap,” _ he says.

Mycroft is uncomprehending.

Jim fishes out a beautifully poached egg.

“She - The Woman you were after - has been nipping at your ankles for ages, Mr. Government. Poaching all your men.” He smiles to himself at the pun as he plates another egg. “Sherlock was bait. And Bond Air was a small sacrifice in your arsenal of plots in exchange for her rolodex.”

“Sherlock?”

Jim nearly drops his spoon.

“Good Lord, you’ve forgotten Sherlock too.”

Mycroft wants to throw up his hands. He’s forgotten everything!! Of course he’s forgotten Sherlock, whatever that is.

“Hmmmmm.” Jim thinks. “Where is he anyway? Nevermind. Should I show you the family photo albums, or the blog? Decisions, decisions.”

.

“Sherlock Holmes is my brother.”

“Yes.”

“He’s a detective.”

“Yes. Well. Consulting detective - he’ll correct you if you mix it up. Picky child.”

“And yet. He doesn’t know who you are?”

Jim takes a suspiciously long time to answer.

“Um. Well. Alright, he thinks I’m an _ actual _criminal. I mean, I am, but, that we’re nemeses or something.”

“Or something.”

“Yep.”

Mycroft frowns.

“Normal people don’t have nemeses,” he says. He frowns again, more to himself this time. “Normal people don’t _ bed and wed their CIs either.” _

Jim just leans over and _ smooch _ pecks him on the corner of his mouth.

“C’mon,” he says, taking Mycroft by the hand. “I’ll show you all the places we had sex.”

Mycroft does a spit take.

.

Part way through the very elaborate house tour (complete with commentary on how many pieces of furniture have been…defiled…while - Mycroft definitely does not need this information right now), Mycroft has an awful realization.

“Am I a bad person?” he gasps aloud, photo album slipping from his hand. Jim catches it before it hits the floor, and gives Mycroft a funny look.

Mycroft moans, covering his face his with hands, slumping down into the sofa.

“Am I a corrupt government official? In bed with a criminal - literally!” Mycroft flops over, strewn out across the sofa, an arm flung over his eyes as he laments his character. “What a cliche I am!”

“I see the concussion has not at all damaged your dramatics,” Jim mutters, before leaning down to smooth his hair back with a hand. Then he kisses Mycroft on the forehead, and puts the album away. 

It’s not just the kiss _ (kisses). _ It’s the arm touching, the hand touching, the arm around the waist, all of the touching. 

Mycroft frowns, but more in confusion than unhappiness.

“You’re very tactile,” he says.

“See you _ do _ remember on some level,” Jim says, definitely happily. It makes Mycroft a little nervous. 

.

They’re preusing the library when Mycroft notices Jim sizing him up and _ most certainly does not buzz with excitement, _ wondering if he will pounce and pin him to the shelves - or hit him over the head with a paperweight and throw his body into an incinerator. What a horrid thing, the imagination.

Thankfully (thankfully?) Jim does neither.

“So. Is this a moral conundrum, or is it that,” Jim thinks for a moment, “that you aren’t attracted to me? You don’t trust me?”

Mycroft is clearly attracted. He knows Jim has caught him looking more than once, and that it amuses him. His face goes red. 

Jim smiles.

“It’s okay, it’s cute.”

It is not. It’s horrifying, is what it is. Mycroft huffs, but Jim goes on.

“You being all standoffish like this. Tempted but _ shy_. How novel! Ah. Mycroft Holmes, cold and untouchable, just waiting for my touch to melt and set you alight,” Jim says with a sigh and barely suppressed laughter. “I do enjoy a good chase every now and then.”

Mycroft busies himself picking up and putting down things of no consequence.

“What do we even do together?” he asks.

“A lot of sex,” Jim answers frankly. It takes a second for Mycroft to realize he’s not merely teasing. “We don’t get to see each other as often as we like, with our schedules.”

Jim frowns. “A lot of _ work _ as well.” 

Mycroft can see that. The house is full of not just convenient places for a lay but a tremendous amount of classified information. And it’s designed like some sort of fortress, albeit a homey one. 

“At least it’s entertaining work,” Jim says, rearranging the objects Mycroft had just rearranged. “Pulling the strings behind governments, watching them dance. Directing who will rise and fall.”

Mycroft feels a wave of moral panic rising.

.

Rifling through a box of mementos he cannot recognize, Mycroft feels something akin to melancholy.

“If I’m not a bad person, why has no one else called upon me?” Mycroft laments.

Jim glances over. “Your assistant confiscated your current work line,” he says. Mycroft had found mobiles all over the place - several burners, he supposes. “Can’t have you talking to anyone important in this state,” Jim says lightly. 

Mycroft frowns. “I have a landline.” Another kiss.

“Yes, and the accident was yesterday, and completely covered up. No one knows you were hurt,” Jim says. Then he laughs. “I never thought I’d see the day when you were complaining about people _ not _ calling.”

“Plus, it’s a good sign - the doctors clearly think your recovery will be fast.”

“They did say it was temporary,” Mycroft says, sulking. Then he considers - “Have you met them?”

“Hm?”

“My family, have you met them?”

“I’ve had a run in or two with Sherlock,” Jim says lightly. The ommission is clear. 

“And-” Mycroft isn’t sure how he should feel about such a private relationship. Surely it wasn’t healthy. “You are alright with that?”

“Hm? I don’t mind. His dramatics are of the textbook younger sibling variety.”

“No, I mean - my not introducing you to my parents. Hiding our relationship. Even though I was the one who proposed.” Mycroft doesn’t know whose side to take anymore. 

Jim looks at him a long while before answering, and then he looks down, picking at a thread.

“You had never made me feel unwanted,” he says.

Ouch - had never - until now. 

But why is he feeling guilty! He doesn’t even remember this man! Shouldn’t _ Jim _ feel guilty for being so clingy, in his traumatized state??

“What about your family?” Mycroft asks in a rush, changing the subject.”

“All died in a fire.”

“Oh I’m-”

“Kidding, kidding. Mum’s a housewife, dad’s got an entrepreneurial streak. Salesman. Brother’s the steady one, working as a station master down south.”

“Have I-”

“I haven’t talked to them in two decades.”

Mycroft doesn’t know what to say to that.

“We spent a lunch together on a bench, having sandwiches while watching my brother.”

“We don’t seem to be experts in healthy relationships,” Mycroft says hesitantly.

“No we don’t.” Jim doesn’t sound bothered.

.

Jim makes a squid ink pasta and Mycroft is secretly (or has he always been??) glad that he married someone who can cook. 

_ “Why _ did you even fall for me?” Mycroft wonders aloud. He’s seen the accounts. He knows now, that this is clearly not a dependent situation, and for that he is glad.

“You know,” Jim says. “My first impression of you was that you were a real life Bond villain.”

Mycroft stops, fork halfway to his mouth.

“Oh yes, you’d cornered me,” Jim says, nodding greviously. “My second impresion was that you’d given up that life to become a boring bureaucrat.”

He’s a bit relieved when Jim continues. “I was wrong on both accounts, of course.”

“And now?” 

Jim leans over, another _ smooch_. 

“A doddering old fool who can’t even remember his husband’s name,” he jokes. Mycroft makes a face.

Jim’s expression softens.

“Sherlock thinks you’re some all powerful spymaster. He’s not quite right, but he’s not quite wrong. You’re ten steps ahead of everyone and keep even me on my toes.” Off Mycroft’s expression, he adds, “in the best way. By which I mean in bed. Kidding, kidding. Not really though.”

Mycroft looks skeptical.

“You’re attracted to evil meglomaniacs, is what you’re saying.”

“Who _ isn’t?” _ Jim says with an exaggerated dreamy sigh. “No, I love how singleminded and decisive you can be. Oops, still evil mastermind traits. Of course, that’s attractive, but I stayed because you saw something in me no one else did. You weren’t looking for...a distraction, or a means to an end, or even an ideal. You just wanted me. That’s a heady feeling.”

Mycroft isn’t any less skeptical.

“And you just couldn’t resist,” he says, dry tone _ almost _ masking his curiosity.

“Oh believe me I _ tried. _ Thought it was going to be a fling, or I’d find a way to use you, except you were _ so _ good at sucking up all my attention I’d never even got far trying. Then even as I was falling for you, I thought, no, no, even if this turns into a relationship, I can break it off any time, and break his heart.”

Mycroft’s expression is clearly hesitant, and he has good reason to be.

Jim laughs.

“You found out, of course.”

Mycroft’s not sure whether that was meant to be reassuring. Was he attracted to conniving backstabbers?

“And?” he asks.

“You proposed.”

“I _ what.” _

“I’d blurted out, weren’t you worried I’d ditch you on our wedding night - I really gave myself away there.”

Jim forgets to watch his expression for a moment, caught in a moment of reminiscing.

“We both knew then it’d all been a bluff. I was never going to be able to walk away.” He smiles. “The house was your wedding gift to me.”

Mycroft is speechless, and also a bit flustered, when Jim looks up again. He decides to save Mycroft the trouble of coming up with a reply by kissing him speechless, again. 

“You asked why I fell for you - well.” The pause is clearly for effect. He smiles in an incredibly self-satisfied way.

“Being needed by someone like you, well that’s _ impossible _ to resist,” he says. Mycroft doesn’t quite understand what it is Jim looks so pleased with. But he would really like to.

.

Mycroft settles into bed, slowly fussing with the covers. Jim’s answered questions for him all day, weaving a tale of epic romance, and Mycroft still doesn’t feel any closer to who he really is.

“What do you like least about me?” he asks.

“Your insistence that I wear pajamas to bed,” Jim answers without missing a beat. 

Mycroft looks over. Jim’s wearing nothing but pants.

“I’m taking advantage of the fact that you can’t remember, obviously,” Jim says when Mycroft gives him a pointed look.

“...obviously.”

Jim kisses him again, likely, Mycroft now believes, in an effort to shut up up. And get his way. He decides to voice this concern.

“I’m starting to think you do this all the time.”

“What?”

“And on purpose.”

“Do what?”

“Use kisses to get your way.”

Jim gives him a big smile at that.

“Is it working?”

Instead, Mycroft gets a bit pensive.

“I don’t know if it’s triggering any sort of memory, to be honest.” How long is he going to be like this?

Jim settles in under the covers, seemingly unconcerned, else putting on a mask to deter Mycroft’s own worries.

“That just means my grand plan to make you fall for me is working,” Jim says. He turns off the lights.

.

Mycroft squirms. He can feel the heat off the body pressed behind him.

“Jim,” he mumbles without opening an eye. “I told you to wear pajamas to bed.”

Jim sits up with a jolt. He looks down and mussles up Mycroft’s hair, which Mycroft ignores, swatting at his hand. 

“Mycroft.”

“Yes.”

“Mycroft.”

“What.”

“Mycroft, you forgot our anniversary.”

“That’s four months away, don’t be silly.”

Jim leans down and plants a big kiss on the side of his face. 

Mycroft blinks awake to give him a funny look and - oh. Ohhh.

Jim grins, but before he can say anything, the doorbell interrupts.

Mycroft sighs. “Must be Sherlock, he’ll have weasled the news out of my assistant.”

Jim peppers his face with kisses.

“Ignore him.”

“Can’t, he’ll barge in.”

Jim sighs, and pulls away as if slighted.

“Fine. I’ll go take a shower. Join me when you’re done.”

“I don’t believe Sherlock will be turned away so quickly. I’ll see you for breakfast.”

“Boo! Fine.”

“We can take a rain check on that shower.”

Jim pokes his head out from the master bath and narrows his eyes at Mycroft.

“I’ll hold you to that.”

“Please do.”

**Author's Note:**

> what cliche trope should i tackle next


End file.
